On Lata Mangeshkar (A Bengali Non-Film Song)

As a Bengali, who has spent his childhood in the 1970-s, in a small industrial town of West Bengal, the occasion of Durga Puja was the single most important annual event of our lives… not least for the lovely new 'aadhunik' (non-film) songs that were released by HMV. While the affluent used to buy these records (typically 45 rpm vinyl-s), the ‘Puja–Pandal’-s used their public address system to play these songs for everyone to enjoy.

My very first memory of listening to a 'Puja-song' was in 1972. By then, Lata Mangeshkar’s ‘Pujo’ songs were already a rage, for well over a decade. Beautiful songs, composed by talents like Satinath Mukherjee, Bhupen Hazarika, Hemanta Mukherjee, Binod Chattopadhyay, Rahul Dev Burman and, most prominently, Salil Chowdhury, had already nestled into the hearts of Bengali-s since the mid/late 1950-s. Typically, the songs of the two sides of the 78 rpm or 45 rpm had contrasting tunes and moods that showcased the versatility of the singer. The people of Bengal were already in awe of Lata’s effortlessness across different genres & styles of songs.

As I walked into the large playground of our locality, (where the community Puja was being held), holding my parents' hands, the trendy strains of Salil Chowdhury’s ‘antabiheen… kaaTe naa aar jeno biroher-I ei din…’ caught my attention.

As the record was flipped to play the 2nd song, the dulcet tone of a sugary-sweet voice wafted into my ears & had a magnetic effect on me. Since then, the song, ‘kichhu to chaahini aami...', has remained safely tucked away in a very special nook of my senses. While ‘antabiheen…’, a compellingly riveting tune, caught my fancy, even at that tender age (and has remained a preferred song right till my college days), it is ‘kichhu to chaahini aami…’ that has made me subconsciously aware of the phenomenon that is Lata Mangeshkar.

There is something very Indian about her tone and something very un-Indian about her singing. Her tonal quality conjures images of a cultured and reserved Indian lady. Her singing, on the other hand, has a ruthlessness of perfection in it (albeit subdued). Something which one generally does not equate with a ‘vinamra bhaaratiya naari’. Singers like Zohrabai Agrewali or Kesarbai Kerkar, with a different social standing, are expected to be perfect in their ‘swar’ production... not a someone with a genteel ‘gayaki’ like Lata Mangeshkar.

It is this apparent dichotomy which, in my humble opinion, has made her such a formidable & compelling artist.

The skill with which she can un-throttle her vocal chords in the middle of a note to sound more luminous (by adding those extra harmonics), is a gift from the Almighty. Then, of course, her ability to nonchalantly slip in a beautiful yet under-stated embellishment/ornamentation (a 'murki') in a song.

She starts softly with the lines ‘kichhu to chaahini aami, shudhu cheye cheye thaaki…’

Then, as she sings ‘jodi kichhu bawlo…’ she increases the radiance of her voice, ever so slightly, to add extra harmonics to permeate into our senses.

And, finally, in the line ‘aami chhalo-chhalo chokhey…’, she softens her voice again but slips in a murki that is so incandescently beautiful that it lights up the atmosphere.

For me, just the four opening lines of this song encompass almost everything that Lata Mangeshkar’s singing means to me. The level of aesthetics that she could infuse into a melody betrays an extraordinary artistic mind... a gift from the Universe to her.

A term which often crosses my mind (for this special gayaki of hers)… caramelised sugar cubes dipped in honey.

This song, an evocative Salil-masterpiece, replete with wondrous piano-passages (and strings section), fits the bill. Even as a non Bengali, the artistic maturity with which she enunciates the lyrics, is brilliant.

No wonder that Salil Chowdhury (and several other composers) have gone on record to say that he could compose any tune with a relieved mind, knowing that virtually nothing was beyond the capabilities of this remarkable singer.

I remain ever so grateful for being able to savour these, first hand.

The song:

kichhu to chaahini aami - Bengali Non-Film (1972)

Music & Lyrics - Salil Chowdhury

For the sake of completeness, the song on the other side of the 45 rpm disc:

antabiheen... - Bengali Non-Film (1972)

Music & Lyrics - Salil Chowdhury

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On Lata Mangeshkar (a tribute by her sister)

 

In the late 1990-s, I started watching Javed Jaffrey’s Videocon Flashback on Channel V. It was obvious that beneath the comic exterior of the anchor, lay a very discerning listener, who took pride and joy in presenting good songs, irrespective of their popularity.

In one such episode, he had spoken admiringly about composer Sajjad Hussain... his talent and his tempestuous nature... his penchant for perfection & his abrasive views... and, his admiration for Lata Mangeshkar’s singing skills.

As the showcase song, Javed Jaffrey played ‘aye dilruba’ from Rustam Sohrab (1963). I was stunned beyond words.

Jaffrey described it as a ‘languid beauty’. He, aptly, pointed out that the song, picturised on a lady, appearing sad and listless on screen, had been rendered skilfully with an enunciation which did not stress on any syllable of the lyrics… with a sense of resignation to fate.

And yet, in this ‘held-back’ singing, there were subtle vocal ornamentations, so typical of the melodies of Central Asia, executed with stunning perfection.

To use a cricketing analogy, it was like VVS Laxman at Eden Gardens in 2001. The batsman was conscious that his knock needed to be a cautious, rear-guard action and yet there were those glorious drives off Shane Warne, through mid-wicket (against the spin!), using those silken wrists, embedded with ball-bearings of steel.

In ‘aye dilruba’, one can easily discern the might of expertise in Lata Mangeshkar’s gayaki even as the poignancy of the rendition envelopes our senses.

A few years ago, I had the immense luck for being at the right place, at the right time. Mrs. Lajwanti Gupta (Lajo-di), the affable daughter of Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, had invited my friend (Shankar Iyer), and me to her cozy apartment in Central Mumbai and she had generously organised a tete-a-tete with her famous neighbour, Asha Bhosle!

It was an evening of dizzying joy, in which I had the privilege of playing many lesser heard gems of Asha Bhosle, which surprised her pleasantly.

The session must have enamoured her sufficiently, for us to be summoned again, within a fortnight. This time, the music-listening session went on for over 4 hours. We primarily played solo songs from her massive body of work. Asha-ji was very amiable & candid in the comfortable & informal ambience.

Then, came a sudden request: “abhi didi ka ek gaana sunaao… woh Sajjad-saab waala gaana.”

As the strains of ‘aye dilruba’ filled up the room (via a nice, portable Bose speaker), Asha-ji shut her eyes to absorb the song.

After those magical 200-odd seconds, there was silence. All of us looked at Asha-ji for her reaction and comments. She opened her eyes, wiped the brimming tears off them and softly uttered just three words…‘yeh hai didi’!

There has been no dearth of tributes showered on Lata Mangeshkar during her lifetime. From heads of states, to ordinary citizens... across the length and breadth of this diverse subcontinent... everyone’s unequivocal views have been consistent… her's is the voice to savour for ever.

Yet, in my humble opinion, those three words, uttered with gentle respect and deep affection, by her incandescently talented sibling (and most formidable professional rival), encompass the greatest ever tribute to Lata Mangeshkar.

The song:

aye dilruba - Rustam Sohrab (1963)
* Music: Sajjad Hussain   *Lyrics: Jan Nisar Akhtar

An audio version:

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